


Skin Deep

by AlexiHollis



Series: She Doesn't Believe in Soulmates (But She Does) [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Self-Harm, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 09:04:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6651544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexiHollis/pseuds/AlexiHollis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lexa doesn't believe in soulmates; Clarke doesn't believe her soulmate is alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skin Deep

Tiny Lexa loved hearing her parents soulmate story. How her mama met daddy in college. How they didn’t realize they were soulmates until after six months of friendship, when mama burned herself with her curling iron and the scar appeared on daddy’s forehead. How they preferred this form of meeting which is why they didn’t have the doctor carve Lexa’s initials on the back of her hand like is normal in society nowadays. Though, that last part didn’t matter, since Lexa’s hand held a scar reading CG since a week after she was born. Tiny Lexa daydreamed about the person initialed CG, asking her mama what she thought they’d look like, act like, where they went to school, everything a young, curious kindergartener would want to know.

Slightly older Lexa, in the later years of elementary school, clung to the story as her parents screamed and fought downstairs while she hid in her closet. She’d trace the letters on the back of her hand, finding solace in the fact someone else was out there, just for her. They wouldn't fight like this, ever. Maybe mom and dad had been wrong, she tried to convince herself, because they didn’t have the initials on their hands. Lexa wondered if she could convince the doctor to carve her initials at her next check up.

That next check up never came. Instead, Lexa came home from school one day to find mom lying on the floor with a gunshot wound to her temple, dad already baring a scar while holding the gun. As the young girl begged mom to wake up, dad pulled her away, telling her to go. Go now. Tell no one what happened. Run to Uncle Gustus’. But the gun wasn’t empty and Lexa collapsed to the ground, fire in her belly.

She woke up in the hospital with her Uncle Gustus standing over her with sad eyes while his soulmate stood out in the hall with their young son and daughter about Lexa's age, Lincoln and Anya. He explained what happened, giving soft details and twisted truths, but Lexa saw straight through them. Uncle Gustus could never lie to her. Her dad killed her mom; he killed his supposed soulmate.

Lexa stopped believing in soulmates after that, covering her own scars caused by her rather klutzy “soulmate” with long t-shirts and pants, wearing a fingerless glove to hide the initials. Never creating scars due to this almost complete coverage was just an added bonus.

* * *

 

Ever since she was old enough to understand what people meant by soulmates, they were a touchy subject for Clarke. All her friends had the scarred initials of their soulmate, but not Clarke. Her parents explained that some parents were more traditional, wanting their child to find their soulmate by looking for the scars they gained over their lifetime, not their initials.

Clarke understood this. Somewhat. Though she worried constantly: what if her soulmate forgot the scars she gained? Clarke asked her parents many times if they had carved her initials, each time they assured her that, yes, her soulmate had the letters CG on the back of their hand. The thought soothed Clarke; even if her soulmate forgot the scars they caused, there was the safety net of at least her initials.

The only scars Clarke carried, though, were minute and nearly invisible. A thin, silvery line across her left palm and barely-there pock marks on her knees her mother hypothesized were from gravel. She treasured them, though, for they assured her that her soulmate was out there, waiting for her to find them.

Until she as she was changing one morning, at the tender age of nine, and saw a divot the size of a quarter in the center of her stomach just under her ribcage. Confused, she went to her parents, showing them the scar and asking what could have caused something like that.

Her mom immediately went into what Clarke called “doctor mode” to examine the scar, before turning to Clarke’s dad with wide eyes. The two began whispering in hushed tones, then quickly drove Clarke to the hospital.

In the end, her mom’s fears were true: Clarke’s soulmate had been shot. The doctor assured the worried parents and confused child that, due to the area in which the scar was located, her soulmate probably survived. However, the only way to know for sure was if scars continued to appear elsewhere on Clarke’s body.

They didn’t.

Years passed and no more scars came. After five years, her mom sat her down to explain the likelihood that her soulmate passed away all those years ago. Clarke refused to believe that, though, and the conversation devolved quickly, ending with Clarke screaming that her soulmate could not possibly be dead, she knows they aren’t dead, and to leave her alone, along with a firm slam of her door. That night, Clarke buried her face into her pillow, sobbing her sorrows and silently begging her soulmate to trip and scrape their knee or something, anything. Through her tears, she heard her parents arguing, her dad protesting that there was still hope.

When her dad died in a car accident two years later, it shattered Clarke’s already broken heart. The scars littering her mother’s body remained a cruel reminder of what they both lost. Once they laid her father to rest, Clarke went to her room, examining the gunshot wound scar on her stomach. So many organs the bullet could have hit, the possibility of bleeding out extremely likely, and no other scars appeared afterwards to signal life. Alone in her room, at sixteen years old, right after burying her father, Clarke accepted her soulmate’s demise.

Then picked up her razor.

* * *

 

The first time Lexa noticed the thin lines on her arms, she was showering. Upon seeing them, her heart rate began to race, worry flooding her. She forced herself to stop looking at them, having enough medical knowledge from the years of doctor visits and physical therapy due to the gunshot wound to know they weren’t fatal. There were only two, anyway.

But the number grew. From two. To four. To six. The more numerous they became, the more attention Lexa paid them. They started to look darker, a hint of deeper cuts.

Lexa tried to remind herself that she didn’t care; she didn’t even know this person. The best thing to do would be to continue on her life like nothing was wrong and eventually, nothing would be wrong.

So the numbers grew until they began to overlap one another, reminding Lexa that her…the other person couldn’t see where the old scars laid. The thought that they probably didn’t realize how bad this had gotten struck Lexa suddenly. To them, it probably seemed like something they didn’t do too often, since the scars appeared days after the last, enough time for the old cuts to heal and fade completely from their skin.

Lexa didn’t care. Why would she care that some stranger decided to cut themselves? It’s not her business, it’s not her problem.

~~(if only she could believe that)~~

Until she did care.

~~(more like admitted to herself that she cared)~~

Because one day, about a year after the first few appeared, the cut wasn’t horizontal, but vertical. Too high up on the forearm and too light to do much damage, Lexa knew that a deep enough vertical cut couldn’t be fixed.

Immediately, she raced to her own bathroom and picked up her own razor, then pressed it to her skin and found she couldn’t force herself to apply enough pressure to make even the smallest of cuts. Returning to her room, she spotted a piece of paper on her desk and, very carefully, created tiny paper cuts along each of the scars on her arm.

* * *

 

Clarke watched the blood drip from the vertical cut; she’d started to high, used too little pressure and stopped too soon for the cut to do what she wanted. Yet she watched, fixated, blank to the world. Downstairs, her mom shuffled around in the kitchen, humming to herself, probably so proud of the great school Clarke was accepted into, early at that, a school with a great med program, a school Clarke did not want to go to, but how could she tell her mother that? Mom never understood her aspirations in art, always calling it a hobby. Dad was the only one to encourage Clarke's dreams and he was long gone.

As she watched herself bleed, Clarke suddenly noticed the thinnest of lines forming farther down her forearm. Her eyes widened as they multiplied, some crossing over each other, as her heart raced as she realized her soulmate wasn’t dead. But what were they doing? The lines were way too thin to be from a razor, more like a paper cut.

Anger mixed with relief, how could they let her think that they were dead? After all this time, they were alive. Did they not understand? She thought they were dead! Tears ran down Clarke’s cheeks as she cradled her arm to her chest. They were alive.

Looking down at the newly formed scars, Clarke dragged herself downstairs. She wasn't going to leave this world without meeting her soulmate. At least to tell them how much of a jerk they were for letting her think they were dead. But she would need help.

* * *

 

No more scars appeared. Lexa, of course, didn’t care.

~~(Except she did)~~

She’d done what she could to help the other person.

~~(But all she could think about was what if she didn’t do enough)~~

It didn’t matter now, anyway.

~~(And yet as she went to college, she wonders if the other even graduated)~~

~~((she hopes they did))~~

* * *

 

Clarke sighed in relief after she carried the last box into her new apartment. After most of senior year occupied with therapy sessions and school and friends worried for her wellbeing and a stressed, recently turned overprotective mom, she was ready to get away from it all, start new.

Raven brought in her last box, falling onto the couch next to her in relief.

“Okay, that was way too long a drive,” she yawned. Well, mostly new. Raven had been there through pretty much everything, Clarke couldn’t just abandon her now.

* * *

 

Lexa quickly decided that the History of Art and Music was her favorite class. Though, despite Anya’s firm belief, it had nothing to do with the beautiful blonde that sat in the front of the class next to an obviously bored Latina.

(but it did help)

((a lot))

The class held Lexa’s attention well, though. Professor Long lectured in ways that captivated every student, even the blonde’s friend who, every day before class, without fail, would throw paper balls at Anya. Anya explained that her name was Raven and that they had, had an “encounter”.

Lexa honestly didn’t want to know.

* * *

 

It took about two seconds for Clarke to notice the tall, admittedly somewhat mysterious, drop dead gorgeous girl who sat in the very back of her History of Art and Music class. As an art major, it was the most obvious choice for a history credit, but Clarke soon found herself enjoying the class. Purely academically of course.

Raven maintained a strange sort of rivalry with the mystery girl’s shadow, known as Anya. No matter what Raven did-be it throw paper balls at her before class, pretend to be having trouble with her leg therefore blocking the door so the other girl couldn’t leave-Anya remained as stoic as her friend.

When Clarke later attempted to probe the brunette about her odd practice of seeming to try and purposely annoy Anya, Raven narrowed her eyes and promised to crack the other girl eventually. Needless to say, the conversation left Clarke more confused than when she started.

* * *

 

Lexa rarely checked her email. It was a thing: a bad thing, she knew, but for some reason she never seemed to be able to force herself to check it more often. Technology advanced way too quickly for her to keep up and her phone seemed to smell fear, so the best way to reach her was to call or come find her. Texting or emailing meant most likely not reaching her until the next millennia.

Which was why Lexa sat alone in the History of Art and Music classroom about ten minutes into when class was _supposed_ to start. About two minutes ago, the TA passed by and, seeing her sitting there, informed her of a mass email explaining class had been cancelled. Since then, Lexa sat sullenly in her desk, refusing to leave in some sort of silent protest, also realizing she desperately needed to join this century and learn how to properly use her cell phone.

When the door opened to let in a scattered looking blonde, Lexa’s eyebrows shot up as she restrained from laughing out loud. The girl looked as if she’d sprinted all the way from her dorm. The apology forming on the blonde’s lips dissipated as she looked around, noting that no one else was in the room except for Lexa.

“Where is everyone?” She asked, out of breath, starting up the stairs towards Lexa’s desk.

“Class was cancelled,” Lexa explained as the blonde collapsed in Anya’s usual seat. “Apparently, Professor Long sent out a mass email. Of course, I didn’t get it.”

“That’s what Raven was doing on my computer!” The blonde suddenly exclaimed. “She said that she wasn’t feeling well and wasn’t going to go to class!”

Lexa chuckled slightly, “So I see it’s not just Anya she’s trying to make miserable?”

“Nope,” she sighed. “God, I’m going to kill her.” Turning to Lexa, the blonde held out her hand. “I don’t believe we met, I’m Clarke Griffin.”

Lexa’s eyes widened slightly as she held out her own hand, well aware that, in her haste to get to class, she’d forgotten her glove. “Lexa Woods.”

Clarke stopped paying attention to what Lexa was saying the second she saw the initials on the back of Lexa’s hand.

“I guess this is where I’m supposed to show you the initials on my hand, huh?” Clarke chuckled slightly, causing Lexa’s heart to fall a bit.

Not that it mattered, of course, but it wouldn’t have been _horrible_ being bound to Clarke who already seemed like a nice person.

“No,” Lexa sighed, taking her hand back. “My parents were more traditionalists. They didn’t believe in the whole initial thing.”

Clarke’s smile grew a bit, showing the bare backs of her hands, “Well, isn’t that a coincidence.”

Lexa blinked, stunned, at the bare hands in front of her.

“On the other hand,” Clarke raised an eyebrow, “I guess that means I have to ask…”

A knot formed in Lexa’s throat. If Clarke were her…the other person, she’d bare the mark of a gunshot wound. That would have to be the one she asked about.

“You ever slice your hand open as a kid?”

Taken aback, Lexa needed clarification, “Sorry, what?”

Clarke showed the palm of her left hand to Lexa, “It happened on the fourth of July. I remember, because it was the very first scar.”

Lexa thought back, remembering suddenly the fourth of July at the beach, Uncle Gustus chasing her around only for her to trip on the sand and slice her hand on a sharp rock.

A smile grew on Lexa’s face to match Clarke’s.

“Yea,” Lexa nodded. “I did. I have this weird scrape mark on the back of my right shoulder blade. Do you have an explanation for that?”

Clarke groaned and laughed at the same time, “Yes! I was riding my bike with my asshole neighbor, and best friend, Raven, when she stopped right in front of me. She wasn’t trying to knock me off, I don’t think, but I fell and scraped my back up pretty bad.”

The two laughed at the story and Lexa continued asking about the scars riddling her body, all with tales of childhood clumsiness behind them. They both recognized that the heavy stuff could wait for later, right now was just for them.

**Author's Note:**

> SO! I got this lovely plot bunny. I am probably going to make this into a series of one shots, so stick around for that! PLEASE LEAVE KUDOS OR A REVIEW! I LOVE THEM VERY MUCH!


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